


A Different Sort of Adventure

by sneetchstar



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya comes back, Canon Compliant, F/M, Post-Canon, because of course she does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-06-03 04:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19456255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: Circumstances encourage Arya to return to Westeros earlier than she had intended.





	1. Chapter 1

Arya Stark does not get seasick. This is something else. She rolls over in her bunk, wondering if she looks as green as she feels, and mentally recounts all the things she ate the previous day.

There is a soft knock on her cabin door. “Yes,” she weakly calls.

The door cracks open. “I checked with the crew. No one is sick. Not the way you’re sick, that is,” the crewman, a young man called Beniss, informs. “And Cook was pretty offended at the suggestion that you took sick from something you ate.”

Arya rolls her eyes. “I don’t care if I offend him… I feel like shit,” she says. “Thank you, Beniss.”

He nods and closes the door. She feels the now-familiar sensations begin to take over: the wave of heat, the heavy salivation, the feeling that her stomach is trying to leap our of her throat. She rolls over and glares at the bucket beside her bed for just a second before she once again becomes close friends with it.

xXx

By lunch, Arya was ravenous, but she ate carefully, just to be sure.

When she felt fine the rest of the day and evening, she thought she was in the clear, even staying up on deck with the crew, trading stories with the men. She got the distinct impression that some of them thought she was making things up or at least embellishing her very true tales, but she really doesn’t care. She doesn’t need to impress anyone.

She went to sleep content, dreaming pleasant dreams about a muscular blacksmith with dark hair and sparkling blue eyes like the sea under the sunlight. Dreams of which she will only have vague memories come morning.

Especially when, come morning, she feels like shit once again.

The pattern continues for three more days before she finally figures out what the problem is. When an older crew member who joined to escape the grief of suddenly being made a childless widower (thank you very much, Daenerys Targaryen) quietly, bashfully asks her one morning if she left a heartbroken young man in Westeros, her 99 percent certainty became 100.

She can only nod, then flees, heading for the bow of the ship. She needs air and wants to feel the wind in her hair.

She needs to think.

She decides she knows five things:

She misses him more than she thought she would.

She knows he will forgive her for turning down his proposal.

She knows he will forgive her for leaving.

She knows he _won’t_ forgive her if she doesn’t tell him about his child.

She knows he will _never_ forgive her if she allows his child to grow up labeled a bastard like he was.

She seeks out the captain that afternoon.

“We need to turn around,” she informs him.

“We _need_ to, you say?” the captain returns, eyebrow raised as he regards her from his chair.

“Yes. I _need_ to return to Westeros,” she says.

“Now is not the time to get cold feet, little lady,” he replies. He is extremely surprised to find a small person’s pointy knee in his chest and a very sharp knife pressed to his throat a split second later.

“Call me ‘little lady’ again and you won’t make it _back_ to Westeros,” she intones, her voice even, her face carefully neutral.

Her calm demeanor unnerves the captain, and he knows in his bones that her threat is sincere. He knows who Arya Stark is.

“Yes, my lady,” he croaks. “Arya,” he immediately corrects, remembering what she told them all when this journey started.

She withdraws, standing out of arms’ reach once again, her hands behind her back, looking nothing like she had just attacked a man nearly twice her size.

“Shall I… make our heading for King’s Landing?” he asks. “Perhaps White Harbor, in the North?”

“No. Shipbreaker Bay,” she answers.

“Shipbreaker Bay?” he repeats, not sounding thrilled by this prospect.

“I need to go to the Stormlands,” she tells him. “Just get me as close to Storm’s End as you can.”

“Why there?” he asks.

She pauses a moment as the ghost of Sandor Clegane seems to materialize behind her. She can almost feel the weight of his huge hand on her shoulder. Her lips quirk into a half smile as she says, “None of your fucking business.”

xXx

It is another month before they drop anchor in Shipbreaker Bay. Arya caught sight of Storm’s End for a few minutes as they sailed past it, and wondered if he saw her ship.

As she makes her way off the ship, she is stopped once again by the captain.

“Arya,” he calls to her.

She turns to face him, not bothering to remove the annoyance from her face.

“What is your plan? That is, what are we to do while you are away?” he asks. She was financing this journey, and he was rather counting on seeing it through, so he hopes this is just a temporary stop.

Her expression is, as usual, unreadable. “If I haven’t returned by this time tomorrow, you are free to do whatever you wish. Leave, stay, I don’t care,” she answers. “Here,” she adds, tossing a purse of coins to him. “It’s not the full amount promised, but I assure you it is generous.” Then she is gone.

She reaches Storm’s End late in the afternoon. She enters a large courtyard and stands still for several moments, looking around.

It seems to be in good order. Some people are milling around. No one looks unhappy. The village she passed through seemed pleasant enough as well.

He is, as she predicted, a good lord.

“Can I help you, Girl?” Arya has finally been noticed by a man leading a rather uncooperative goat. He is older than she, but younger than her father would be were he still alive.

“Can you tell me where your lord is?” she asks, getting straight to the point.

The man squints as he thinks. “Prob’ly in the smithy. He’s in there a lot, he is. Says it helps him think. It’s just over there, but—”

“Thank you,” she interjects, already growing impatient. She hoists her bag more securely onto her shoulder and heads towards the indicated building.

“Girl! Oi, Girl!” the man calls after her, causing his goat to bleat. He shushes it, then says, “His lordship don’t like to be bothered when he’s smithing.”

She simply smiles and continues on her way.

The man shakes his head, then notices an old woman staring after the girl. “You know her?”

“That’s Arya Stark,” the old woman says.

The man squints after Arya, watching as she enters the darkness of the smithy. The faint noise of the hammer stops a moment later. “You sure? That… _girl_ is Arya Stark? The great warrior who killed the Night King?”

The woman nods. “Has to be. She’s the copy of Lyanna Stark, dead all these years.”

“Thought she’d be bigger,” the man comments, then continues on his way with his goat.


	2. Chapter 2

Arya blinks in the relative darkness of the smithy, willing her eyes to adjust to the dim after spending all day in the sun. She waits until he notices her.

It doesn’t take long.

When he does, he drops his hammer, jumping out of the way before it can land on his foot.

They stare at one another, not talking, for a solid minute.

“I’m sorry.”

They both speak at the same time, both apologizing for their own perceived stupidity.

She takes a step forward. “Why are you apologizing?” she asks.

“Because I never should have asked you… to be a Lady. I… I knew better. Honest, I did, Arya, I…” he trails off, hardly believing his eyes, hardly believing she’s here.

She notices he doesn’t ask her why she is apologizing. “I know important it is to you,” she quietly admits. “Titles and such. Being… worthy. I know you didn’t think you were. Even though it didn’t matter to me, it did to you, and I… I didn’t think about it from your point of view. I understand now.”

He takes a step towards her. His hair is a little longer, but he otherwise looks just the same. No; better. She’s glad he’s in here, sweaty and sooty and bare-armed, looking like she remembers him and not seated in a receiving chamber dressed in finery.

Not to say he didn’t look excellent in said finery, as he did when she saw him at the council in King’s Landing, but this way, he’s still _her_ Gendry. She hopes.

“I understand, too. Like I said, I knew you never wanted to be a proper Lady. I always have. I had hoped you knew that when I asked you to be the Lady of Storm’s End, I didn’t mean it that way. I just wanted _you_ , Arya. By my side. Helping me. Loving me. On _our_ terms, no one else’s,” he explains.

Now that he’s closer, she can see the tiredness in his blue eyes, the weight of responsibility on his broad shoulders. “I think I figured that out somewhere out on the open sea,” she quietly admits.

“Is… is that why you’re here?” he asks.

“Sort of,” she answers. “I…” she starts, then stops again, taking a deep breath. “There has been a development since I left. Something has… happened, and I knew I needed to come back.”

His eyes widen. “What happened?”

She steps even closer, to where she can reach him, and takes his hand. She guides it to her stomach, which is just starting to swell. It is still early, but because she is so small she is already starting to show a bit. Someone who knows her well might see it. Someone who knows her _body_ well might feel it.

“Arya, I…” he stammers, his fingers curling into the slight roundness he feels there. She drops her hand, but his stays there, his eyes fixed on her abdomen. “But I didn’t… I spilled outside…”

“You almost didn’t the second time,” she reminds him, cocking an eyebrow.

“But I did!” he protests, looking up and dropping his hand. Then a moment later, he deflates and acquiesces. “Yeah, I guess it was more of an ‘almost’ the second time.”

She nods, then looks down, wondering what it will look like when her belly is fully swollen with child. If the baby will be small, like her, or big, like him. Her hand absently lands on the slight bump once more.

When she looks up again, his eyes are closed, a torrent of confused emotions clearly flooding him. She begins to worry that he’s unhappy about this, that he’s already got enough things to worry about, that he’s not ready to be a father.

But then he opens his eyes again and reaches out, pulling her to him and wrapping his arms around her.

It feels good. It feels right. Like a missing part of him has been put back into place. But her arms remain at her sides, and he’s not sure what to make of that.

So he apologizes again. “I’m sorry,” he says into her hair, his lips pressed against the top of her head.

She pulls back slightly to give him a puzzled look. “Why the seven hells are you apologizing now?”

“Because… I… I didn’t think you wanted a child,” he says, loosening his hold on her to lightly grasp her elbows, keeping her close but trying not to overwhelm her. “And because you had to cancel your journey since I couldn’t control myself.”

“Gendry,” she says with a sigh, “It is my fault as much as it is yours. And I never said anything about not wanting your child.”

“My child?” he asks, catching her careful word choice. “So… so you didn’t come here just because of the baby?”

“Well, I did and I didn’t,” she answers, knowing she needs to be honest with him. “The baby just made me come here sooner than I had planned. I was… I was always going to come back to you. But I wanted – needed – to get back to myself first.”

Overcome, he pulls her to him once more. She lets herself be crushed against his hot, sweaty chest and revels in it. Even the sharpness of his sweat is pleasantly familiar. She closes her eyes and lets her hands find his back now, finally returning his embrace. “Am I too late?” she softly asks.

“What?” he replies, looking down at her.

“Am I too late?”

“For what?”

“Have you gotten yourself betrothed already? The young noble women of Westeros must be clamoring for your attention,” she asks.

“I already told you: there is only one young noble woman of Westeros that interests me,” he answers, his eyes soft as he looks down at her. “But I thought I buggered it all up with her several moons ago.”

“You didn’t,” she assures him. “You acted… exactly how I would have expected you to under those circumstances.” She reaches up and touches his cheek. “No one had ever called me ‘beautiful’ before,” she quietly admits, her expression softer than he has ever seen it.

“So… you _do_ love me?” he asks, dumbfounded.

“If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t _be_ here, Stupid,” she says, rolling her eyes. But then she gives him one of her rare, small smiles.

The only thing he can do is lean down and kiss her smiling lips.

xXx

“We should get married soon,” Gendry carefully comments, keeping his eyes trained on his dinner. He’s not completely certain how she’ll react to the suggestion of marriage so soon, but he reasoned that if she came back because she was carrying his child, then she might at least be open to the idea. When she doesn’t answer right away, he risks a peek up at her. She’s looking at him with an amused smirk on her face.

“Been holding that in long?” Arya asks, an eyebrow raising slightly.

“Since you admitted you love me,” he answers with a heavy exhale.

She snorts a laugh. “We can marry tomorrow if you can arrange it,” she says, tearing off a piece of bread. Her tone is so casual she may as well have been commenting on the weather.

“We—we can?” he stammers, eyes wide.

She sets her fork down and finally gives him her undivided attention. “Gendry. I know how important it is to you that our child not be born a bastard.”

“That’s why you came back,” he says.

“One of several reasons,” she confirms.

“But… what about you? You’re giving up your plans… your dreams,” he says, frowning. “I know how important your independence and freedom is to you. And I definitely remember your not wanting to be a Lady.”

She smiles. “I never said I was giving up anything,” she explains. He looks even more confused, so she continues. “I know you won’t stop me from doing anything I want to do.”

“Like that would even be possible,” he interjects, chuckling.

“Exactly,” she replies with a smug smile. “I promise you I won’t disappear on you,” she says, placing her hand over his. “Not permanently, anyway.”

“What?”

She laughs, and he realizes she was teasing him.

“In that case, I promise I won’t expect you to act like a traditional Lady. I don’t want you to be anything that you are not. I never wanted that,” he reiterates.

“I know. You’ve told me several times now,” she replies.  
A knock on the door stops Arya from saying whatever she had opened her mouth to say next. Gendry sighs, and whispers, “I’m still not used to this,” before calling, “Come in.”

An older man comes scurrying in, clutching a small scroll. “My lord,” he says, his eyes briefly flitting to Arya for a moment, a curious look flashing across his face for a moment before he regroups. “Forgive me, my lord… I did not realize you had a guest.”

If Gendry was not already very aware of how him entertaining a woman alone in his rooms looks, the judgment on his Maester’s face would tell him in no uncertain terms. Even though they are in the outer chamber, nowhere near the bed, they are still alone behind closed doors.

“I didn’t think I needed to tell you,” Gendry replies, trying not to sound annoyed. Arya’s small snort of laughter, hidden in her goblet, tells him he did not succeed.

The older man simply purses his lips and curtly nods.

“Maester Simmon, this is Arya of House Stark,” Gendry introduces. “She just arrived this afternoon. I wasn’t expecting her, but we are… old friends.”

“Lady Arya,” Maester Simmon greets, bowing lightly. Arya nods in reply. “My lord, a raven arrived for you a short time ago.”

“What is the message?” Gendry sighs, not really caring right now. He wants to get back to reuniting with Arya. And hopefully not leaving these rooms until late tomorrow morning at the earliest.

“Prince Sestino Martell of Dorne writes, wishing to pay a visit to the Stormlands,” Simmon says. His eyes flit to Arya once more before he adds, “with his daughter, Princess Lyria.”

“He wants you to marry her,” Arya blithely comments, popping a chunk of cheese into her mouth.

“Yes, I did figure that out,” Gendry snidely replies. “Please write back to the prince, telling him he and his daughter are welcome to visit any time, but I’ll be married by the time the raven reaches them.”

Maester Simmon looks shocked. “My lord?”

“Arya and I are to be married. Tomorrow, if you have no prior commitments,” Gendry explains.

“Oh,” Simmon dumbly replies, looking back and forth between his lord and the strange young Stark, who is dressed like a man and currently eating like one as well. “Very good, my lord,” he manages, pushing aside the thousand questions suddenly surfacing. “If it pleases you, my lord, I shall… compose a suitable reply on your behalf.”

“I’m still learning my letters,” Gendry explains to Arya, as if she didn’t already know. She smiles and nods.

The maester thinks for a moment. “Perhaps something along these lines? ‘Lord Baratheon will be honored to receive you and the princess at a time that pleases the prince. His marriage to Lady Arya—’”

“Not Lady Arya,” Gendry interrupts.

“Oh… of course… you’re a princess now, aren’t you?” Simmon corrects himself. “‘His marriage to Princess Arya—’”

“Arya of House Stark,” Gendry presses.

“My lord?”

“Use ‘Princess,’” Arya says, surprising them both. Ignoring Gendry’s shocked look, she continues, “Word it like this: ‘Lord Baratheon and his wife, Arya of House Stark, Princess of the Six Kingdoms and the North, will be honored to receive you and the princess at a time that pleases the prince. We wish you safe travels.’ That should do.”

“Arya?” Gendry prompts, still perplexed even as Simmon thoughtfully nods.

“Just because I don’t behave like a noble doesn’t mean I don’t know how to do so,” she says. “I know how to play those games, even though I hate them.”

“Glad someone does,” he mutters. “Why ‘Princess’ though?”

“To assert herself, of course,” Simmon answers. “Prince Sestino will no doubt be disappointed in the news—”

“No,” Arya cuts him off. “It’s so Princess Lyria won’t get upset about being passed over in favor of someone she might deem to be beneath her,” she explains. “I don’t know the girl at all. She may be lovely, but she also may be a small-minded bitch,” she adds with a shrug. “This will hopefully satisfy either case.”

Gendry can only lean over and soundly kiss her. “You are incredibly smart,” he says. “I’m so glad you’re here.” He kisses her again, a little slower this time.

Maester Simmon clears his throat.

“You need something, Maester?” Gendry asks, not hiding his annoyance at all this time.

“Forgive me, my lord, but will any of Princess Arya’s family be arriving for the wedding?” he asks.

“They don’t know about it, so no,” Arya answers. “Actually, if you have a raven to spare, I’d like to write to my sister. I’ll need to tell her before she finds out from someone else.”

“Just one?” Simmon asks. “Do you not also wish to write to King Brandon?”

Arya smiles. “Oh, I’m sure he already knows,” she answers.

“Thank you, Maester,” Gendry says, dismissing him.

“I’ll have the message for Sansa by morning,” Arya says.

The Maester nods, then leaves, wisely keeping his thoughts about the scandalous behavior of his lord and his betrothed to himself.

As soon as the door is closed again, Arya stands, keeping her gaze on Gendry. He watches as she walks around the table, heading towards him. She stops, an expectant look on her face.

“Oh,” he softly exclaims, pushing his chair away from the table. Before he can stand, she crowds closer still, and he realizes she means to settle on his lap.

Another knock on the door interrupts them before she can, and Gendry swears under his breath.

Arya steps back and is nearly at her chair when he calls out, “Come in.”

The door opens to reveal an old, soft-looking woman with a young man and woman just behind her.

“Yes, Nyda?” Gendry asks.

“I’ve had the largest guest room made up for Princess Arya, my lord,” Nyda answers, bobbing a curtsey and sneaking glances at Arya as she does so.

“You must have run into Maester Simmon in the corridor,” Gendry reasons. The housekeeper saw them enter the castle, but he made no introductions, so that is the only way she could have known the identity of his guest.

“Yes, my lord,” Nyda answers. “Kier will take her things to the room for her, and Denia will serve as her handmaid,” she adds, indicating the two young people behind her.

Arya can see a resemblance between them, and reasons that they are likely her grandchildren. “Thank you for care and time… Nyda, is it? But I have only a few things and haven’t had a maid since I was a small girl at Winterfell.”

Nyda looks disappointed for a brief moment, but then nods. “Is there anything you do require then, my lady?”

Gendry watches this interaction curiously, noting that Arya is not correcting how Nyda is addressing her.

“I would love a very hot bath if it isn’t too much trouble,” she says, surprising him again.

Nyda brightens, happy to have a task. “No trouble at all, my lady,” she answers. “My lord, have you finished your dinners?”

“Yes, thank you,” Gendry answers.

Nyda and her charges step forward and gather the dinner dishes, then head for the door.

“Is there anything you require, my lord?” Nyda asks, hoping her master doesn’t notice he’s suddenly become an afterthought in the face of his fascinating guest.

“I could do with a bath myself, I think,” he answers.

“Very good,” she answers, then turns towards Arya again. “I will send Denia to fetch you when your bath is ready, my lady,” she says before bobbing a curtsey and making her exit.

Arya only nods, then waits until the door closes again. Then she stands and resumes where she left off, curling into Gendry’s lap like a pampered feline.

“Is it always like this?” she asks.

“Like what?” he returns, wrapping his arms around her.

“Constant interruptions,” she clarifies, lifting her head from being tucked under his chin and rests it on his shoulder.

“Didn’t you grow up in a place like this?” Gendry asks, puzzling down at her.

She rolls her eyes. “I was a little girl in Winterfell. I _grew up_ out in the world, fending for myself,” she answers.

“Right. Sorry, I… will you tell me some day?” he asks, remembering the long scars on her side.

She hesitates a moment before answering, “Probably.”

He nods, knowing that is the best answer she can give right now. “It’s sometimes like this,” he says, answering her previous question. “They were here when I arrived, just maintaining the place. I think they’re happy to have something to do now. Someone to look after.”

“Do you let them? Look after you?” she asks.

“Sometimes,” he repeats, laughing. “Takes some getting used to.”

“I know,” she agrees, starting to place small kisses on his neck. He smells so good and familiar she just can’t help herself.

He quietly groans, his eyes closing for a moment. “You didn’t correct her,” he says.

“Who?”

“Nyda. When she called you ‘my lady’ you let her.”

“I’ve learned not to argue about it in certain cases. Someone like her, a woman who has been serving your family for generations, wouldn’t know how to not address me by some kind of title,” Arya explains, settling her head against his shoulder again.

“You’re different,” Gendry says after a pause. “Every time I see you after we’ve been apart, you’ve changed some from the last time.” She lifts her head and looks at him under a furrowed brow, and he quickly adds, “For the better. You seem to… grow. Improve. While I just… stay the same stupid bull.”

She leans forward and kisses his lips. “Four and a half moons at sea gives a girl a lot of time to think about things,” she answers.

“What kind of things?” he asks, trailing his fingers along the side of her face, brushing back some wayward strands of hair.

“Nothing… solid. You get an interesting perspective, surrounded by nothing but water. You feel very small, insignificant. In a good way, though. I know I’m not insignificant, but… the world is so vast and there are more important things to concern yourself with than someone addressing you as ‘Lady.’ It’s just a title, nothing more. I couldn’t have chosen it any more than I could have chosen being called Arya. But I can write my own story to go with it.”

He kisses her forehead. “That… that sounds wonderful, Arya,” he softly says, thinking it might be nice to one day go on a journey together, but he keeps that thought to himself for now. “I’ve been spending my time learning how to be a lord. And learning how to read and write. I fear I’m not making very good progress there,” he chuckles.

She kisses him again. “I’m sure you are. And you have changed, too,” she assures him. “You probably just can’t see it, because you’re living it. Even so, your constancy, your… stability is one of the things I love about you.”

At those words, he kisses her now, and there is no conversation for several minutes.

Until servants come knocking with preparations for Gendry’s bath.


	3. Chapter 3

“Will I see you after your bath?” Gendry asks, standing with Arya just inside the open doors to his rooms. Denia is waiting just outside, pretending not to listen.

“Why, Lord Baratheon!” Arya responds in a mock-scandalized manner. “Are you presuming to spend the night with me _before_ we are wed?”

He laughs and places his hand over her stomach, caressing it. “Considering the damage has already been done…” he says, grinning stupidly at her.

She laughs with him, but then her smile turns more serious. “Yes, well, I think just this once, we should honor traditions and exercise restraint,” she says, reaching up to place her hand on his cheek. “It’s only one night.”

“One night and four moons,” he corrects, dropping his forehead against hers. “But you are right. It will feel like more of a real wedding night if we wait.” Then he tilts his head down and kisses her again.

“Goodnight, Gendry,” she whispers, pecking his lips once more before pulling away to follow Denia down the corridor.

The bath is still steaming when she enters the room, and she wastes no time undressing and getting in. She sinks into the water with a sigh, her eyes closing.

“My lady, do you require anything?” Denia asks, her voice soft and a little hesitant.

Arya wonders if the girl is always this shy or if she’s simply intimidated by her. “No, I don’t think—wait, yes I think there is,” she says, sitting up in the tub. “I’m to marry your lord tomorrow and I have nothing suitable to wear.”

Denia brightens up a bit, seeming to be pleased to have a task. “I can find something, my lady!” she answers. Her voice is still quiet but now there is an air of excitement about it.

“You can call me Arya,” Arya says. “If you want. I really don’t care much for titles.”

“Oh, I don’t know if my nan would like me addressing you in a familiar way, my lady,” Denia answers.

“When it’s just you and me then,” Arya suggests, smiling warmly at her. She wonders how old the maidservant is. She’s taller than herself, but most people are, and she seems rather young besides.

“I… I will try, my lady,” she answers. “Arya,” she adds, trying it out. She is rewarded with another smile.

“Look,” Arya says, settling back into the tub. “I don’t need much tending. I’ve taken care of myself for most of my life because there was no one else to do it. But if you don’t mind that I prefer to wear breeches, don’t act like a Lady is supposed to act, and occasionally tell you to go away, you can be my maidservant.”

Denia enthusiastically curtseys. “Oh yes, my l—Arya! Thank you very much, I am honored to serve the famous Arya Stark, the woman who killed the Night King and saved us all!” she gushes, then presses her lips together, eyes wide, as if she’s afraid she said too much, went too far.

Arya simply smiles and picks up the cloth and soap beside the tub. “I promise it will be an easy job,” she says, choosing to move past the girl’s praise to save them both some embarrassment.

Denia curtseys again. “I will find you something to wear for tomorrow then,” she says.

“Nothing too fancy or frilly or fussy. Simple,” Arya specifies.

“Of course,” Denia answers, nodding.

“And if you could steal me one of Gendry’s shirts to sleep in, I’d be extremely grateful,” Arya says, looking straight ahead, hoping that if her cheeks are red, it could be attributed to the hot water.

“I… I’ll try,” Denia replies, blushing as well.

“Thank you, Denia,” Arya says, dismissing her to her tasks so she can have some solitude and bathe in peace.

xXx

_Flames. Flames and smoke. Flames and smoke and rubble and dust and blood and screams and children’s broken bodies in the street…_

Arya sits bolt upright in bed, gasping and sobbing. She reaches up and wipes her cheeks with her palms, then leans forward and brings her knees up, curling into herself.

She tucks her nose down, chasing Gendry’s scent on the shirt that Denia gave her. She somehow knew Arya would prefer one that was not fresh from the laundry. Unfortunately, it only brought her comfort enough to fall asleep. It did not stop the nightmares. And now it is damp with her own sweat, and no longer smells of him.

She flops onto her side, still curled in a ball. The sound of distant thunder reaches her ears and she jumps a little, then curses herself for it.

“It’s just thunder, not a dragon, you ninny,” she angrily mutters, wiping her face again.

She gets up, pours herself a cup of water, downs it, and starts walking back to bed. Halfway there, she stops, sighs, and heads for her chamber pot.

After, she stops again on the way to her bed, simply standing and staring at it.

Then there is a bright flash of lightning followed by a loud clap of thunder. Arya turns around and walks to the doors.

A minute later, she is outside Gendry’s room. She raises her hand to knock, then withdraws it, spreading her fingers wide and placing her palm against the wood. She takes a deep breath, then slides her hand down and opens the door.

He is sleeping. Of course he’s sleeping. It’s the middle of the night.

Undeterred, she closes the door behind her and silently pads across the room until she is beside his bed.

He looks so carefree, so _soft_ when he sleeps. She’s certainly seen him sleeping before, and has even slept beside him on multiple occasions, for warmth and safety.

It’s different now. Now that they have intimate knowledge of each other’s bodies. Now that they have both admitted their love for each other. Now that she is carrying his child.

Accustomed to much narrower sleeping quarters, he is curled on his side, occupying less than half of the large bed. It is very easy for her to slip into under the covers. She wants to touch him, so she slowly, carefully, moves closer until she can. She needs his solid presence to keep the nightmares away. Hopefully.

He doesn’t move, so she moves closer still. He stirs a little but doesn’t wake.

Now she is right at his side, almost comfortable. He moves a little and she takes advantage, settling herself on his shoulder.

“Arya.” A deep, hoarse voice in the dark. She feels his arm move, wrapping around her and pulling her body against his.

“Had a nightmare,” she replies, but doesn’t elaborate further.

When he doesn’t reply, she realizes he is asleep. He never even awoke; he simply reached for her and spoke her name in his sleep.

Somehow that knowledge endears him to her even more.

She hears another distant rumble of thunder, but falls asleep soon after.

She sleeps through the thunderstorm when it finally reaches them.

xXx

Gendry stirs, slowly blinking awake. He startles when he opens his eyes and sees a pair of large, gray eyes staring down at him.

“Arya!” he exclaims. “Seven hells…”

“About time you woke up,” she says, trying not to get distracted. He is shirtless and sleep-rumpled and simply adorable and inviting. She sits up more fully, resolved.

He can tell by the pale light filtering in the windows that it is only just around dawn, and he wonders how long she has been awake. “It’s still… really early,” he protests.

“I know,” she answers. He can tell she has something on her mind, so he remains quiet and waits. She sighs, fidgets with her shirt for a second, then says, “I want to tell you.”

He blinks. “You do?” he softly asks, scooting so he is sitting up. He vaguely notices she is beneath the covers with him, but doesn’t give it much thought. “Now?”

Her lips twitch into a slight smile, pleased that he knew what she meant. “Yes, now. I… I want to tell you… need to tell you before we get married.” She sits up straighter, squaring her shoulders, and suddenly her stoic façade is in place and she is made of steel. “You need to know before. Because you might not want to marry me once you know.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he immediately says, sounding braver than he feels.

“It really isn’t, Gendry,” she says. “You have no idea what I had to do out there.” She vaguely gestures towards the window.

He adjust the pillow behind his back and gives her his full attention. “So tell me.”

xXx

Gendry listens to her talk for well over an hour. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t comment, doesn’t ask questions, hardly even moves. He feels he owes it to her to listen to everything she wants to tell him, especially because he is fairly certain he is the only person privileged enough to receive such a gift.

“Thank you for telling me,” he says once she is finished. “I… I feel like I understand you even better now. I understand why you made the choices you made. Regarding me. Us. At least, I think I understand. I understand as much as I am able.” She is staring at him with wide, wary eyes, and he says, “I still want to marry you more than anything.” He places a gentle hand on her knee and gives it a light squeeze.

“You do?” she asks. “You don’t… you don’t think I’m a monster?”

“Arya,” he firmly says, “you did what you needed to do to survive.”

“I… I might still be a monster. I’m not sure it’s all out of me yet.”

“It may never be,” he easily says, lightly shrugging, unconcerned. “But it is a part of what made you the amazing woman you are today.”

“I killed people. People I didn’t even know,” she protests.

“Your own life was at risk. You had to,” he presses, turning to face her so they are sitting cross-legged on the bed, knees nearly touching. “I love you, Arya. There’s nothing that could change that.”

“Yes, there is,” she says.

“Let me be the judge of that,” he sternly says. She opens her mouth, but he gently puts his finger against her lips. “Time for me to talk,” he says, and, to his surprise, she relents. “When I said I loved you that night, I meant it. When I said none of this would be worth anything without you, that was true, too. I’ve been surviving here, but I haven’t been living. There’s a difference, and I think you know that.”

She nods, but keeps quiet, giving him the same respect he gave her.

“You were always small and terrifying, even when you were still a child,” he says, smiling a little. “At first, I thought the ‘terrifying’ part was… a false front to make up for the ‘small’ part. But even then, even though you were a child and I was… somewhere between a boy and a man, you fascinated me. I think I loved you even then, in some way. I don’t think I could have recognized it at the time, but… this is going to sound very wrong, but here goes.” He frowns, furrows his brow, and says, “When you said you could be my family and I said you would be my lady, I… I meant it. But I… I think… in my heart, deep down, when I said ‘my lady’ I didn’t mean it as you would be my better and I would be your servant or something. I think – well, I’d like to think – that I meant it as I wanted you to be mine. My lady, not my Lady.” He frowns again. “If that makes sense.” She nods again. “What I didn’t realize at the time is that we could both get what we wanted.”

“We both wanted the same thing, but we didn’t know it. Didn’t understand it,” she says, and he nods.

“When I saw you again at Winterfell, you were slightly less small and slightly more terrifying,” he says with a chuckle. “And slightly more fascinating.” After a moment’s pause, he amends, “A lot more fascinating.” He reaches over and takes her hands. “When we finally spoke and I was fully faced with the fact that you are now very much a woman grown, I knew in that moment that there would never be any other woman more important to me than you. No one knows me the way you do, Arya, and I’m a better man because of it. I loved you as a child, I still love you as a man, and I will always love you. No matter what.”

Arya blinks back unexpected tears. She never knew he could be so eloquent. Even if he stumbled over some of his words, he really knows how to get his point across.

“There is one thing,” she repeats, stubborn as ever.

He sighs. “What?”

She takes their joined hands and places his over her stomach. “I knew that if I didn’t come back to you, if I let our child be born a bastard… or didn’t tell you about his existence, you would never forgive me.”

He lifts one of her hands to his lips and kisses it. “Probably, but… I would still love you. Even if I couldn’t forgive you, I don’t think I could stop loving you. I don’t think I know how,” he says.

“Love is terrible,” she sighs, laughing a little.

He leans forward and rests his forehead against hers. “Yeah,” he agrees. He suddenly leans back. “Is that my shirt?”

“Yes,” she answers, her tone suggesting that it was obvious.

Then he remembers that she was – and still is – beneath the covers with him. “How long have you been here?” he asks. “In my bed, I mean.”

“About half the night,” she answers. “I had a nightmare. I get them. A lot.”

“I would imagine you do,” he replies with a nod, thinking of the horrors she has both seen and experienced. “Did it help? Being here with me?”

“It did. At least it did last night,” she answers. “I can’t guarantee you’ll always be able to keep them away, but…”

“We can hope,” he finishes, then leans over and kisses her. “And if you have any here with me, don’t ever hesitate to wake me up.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” she answers. She kisses him once more, just long and deep enough for him to start getting ideas. Then she pulls away and slips out of his grasp and bed. “I will see you at noon, in the Godswood,” she says, then heads towards the door, leaving him gaping after her.

“Arya,” he finally manages, just as she’s walking out the door.

“What?” she answers, turning around.

“Noon?”

“We’re to be married at noon, remember?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, yes,” he huffs. “But I won’t see you until then?”

“You’re not supposed to see me today at _all_ , Stupid,” she replies. “It’s traditional.” She turns around again.

“Since when do you care about traditions?” he calls as the door is closing.

“Since now!” she calls through the closed door, and he can hear the laughter in her voice.


	4. Chapter 4

Gendry tried to go back to sleep after she left, but he was too awake, his mind whirring with the tales she told him of her life since they parted ways as children.

If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought she was telling tales. But he knows her, knows she wouldn’t lie to him. And he’s seen firsthand the things of which she is capable. The dragonglass daggers, thrown with deadly precision. The spear-tipped staff he made for her, spinning almost lazily between her practiced hands. Arrows perfectly hitting their mark again and again.

Not to mention the Night King.

She was out in the world, fighting for her life, while he hid in plain sight in the most obvious place possible.

“I really am stupid,” he chuckles, getting out of bed.

He tries to go about his regular business of the day, but finds he is too distracted.

Every time someone knocks on his door, he hopes it’s Arya.

Every time, he is disappointed.

He knows she said he wouldn’t see her until noon, but he still stupidly hopes.

If anyone means what they say, it’s Arya Stark.

xXx

“It’s me, my lady.” Denia’s voice follows her quiet knock.

Arya already knew it was her; Gendry wouldn’t knock that delicately. In fact, she’s pretty sure Gendry wouldn’t dare come to her door this morning for fear of retribution. Like she would decide not to marry him or something ridiculous.

“Come in,” she calls, sitting and staring out the window at the sea, still wearing nothing but Gendry’s shirt.

Denia enters, gives her a wary look, then says, “Um, my brother has something to bring in…”

“Then let him bring it in,” Arya answers.

“But…” the girl helplessly says, gesturing at her mistress’ bare legs.

“The Seven help me,” Arya sighs, then stalks to her bed, where she climbs in and covers her offending appendages.

“All right,” Denia says, waving in Kier, who is carrying a large trunk. Arya could easily fit inside it with room to spare, but he is carrying it with very little trouble.

Arya absently wonders if the men from the Stormlands are all this strapping. Or if perhaps Kier is yet another of Robert’s bastards. She looks closely at him. His hair is sandy brown, tinged with gold when the sun hits it, and his eyes are dark, not blue.

“Thank you, Kier,” Arya says, furrowing her brows. “But what is it?”

Kier nods, bows, and quickly exits. Denia bends and opens it.

“These were to be Lord Stannis’ daughter’s gowns for when she was a little older,” Denia says. “My gran told me about them when I asked her about something for you to wear today.”

“Lady Shireen,” Arya quietly says. She knows very little about the girl, only that she was said to be very sweet and had been touched by grayscale.

And that Stannis had let the Red Woman burn her alive.

“Did you know her?” Denia asks, pulling garments out of the trunk.

“No, I never met her,” Arya answers. The maidservant appears to be younger than herself, so she knows not to return the question. “Did your… did your Gran serve Lord Stannis?” she asks instead.

“Oh, yes,” Denia answers. “And Lord Robert before him. She didn’t much care for Lord Robert,” she says. “Oh! Begging your pardon!”

Arya laughs. “You may always speak freely with me, Denia,” she says. “I always prefer honesty. I have no time for people who only tell me what they think I want to hear.”

Denia relaxes, the redness slowly draining from her face. “Oh, good. I… I sometimes speak before I think. It has gotten me into trouble more than once,” she admits.

“Even if I disagree with or dislike something you say, I still want you to be honest and speak openly,” Arya reiterates, getting out of bed to inspect the garments emerging. “I have already had too much dishonesty and deception in my life, and do not wish to deal with any more, especially from those closest to me.”

“Yes, my l—Arya,” Denia answers. She holds up a gown. It is a soft blue with embroidery and ruffles. “No,” she declares, tossing it on a nearby chair.

Arya laughs, reaching for another garment. It is another very girlish gown, but she holds it up to herself to check the size. “Your gran has a good eye for sizes, at least.”

Denia nods. “Gran is a very good seamstress. She made several of these dresses,” she says, almost absently as she continues to sort the clothes. “And since you are so tiny, she thought the things in this trunk would be close to the right size.”

“Do you think she would make me some things?” Arya asks.

“Of course!” Denia immediately answers, looking up at her with surprise. “You _will_ be her mistress before the end of the day.”

“Oh yes. Of course,” Arya replies. “It’s just not…” she huffs, her fingers worrying the edge of a skirt, “I never intended to be a Lady of anything. And I have not had to worry about anyone but myself for so long that I… I have almost forgotten what it is like. To be a noble.”

Denia looks at her, her face full of wonder and admiration. “Would you tell me some day? About your life?”

Arya considers the request for a moment, her soul still recovering a bit from having shared the tale with Gendry earlier that morning. “Perhaps,” she finally answers. “It is not a nice story.”

“Oh,” Denia responds, frowning lightly as whatever tales of adventure she had constructed in her head fade away. “Does… does Lord Gendry know it?” she asks, immediately following it with, “Forgive me. It is not my business.”

Arya smiles again. “He does know,” she says. “And while you are correct and it is not your business, I’m not offended by your honest curiosity.”

“Thank you,” the girl replies. “Ah. Perhaps this,” she says, switching the topic back to the safer one of clothing. She holds up a long gown in a dark gray that looks soft and slightly shimmery. It is simple but not plain, with long sleeves. The scoop neckline is embroidered, but simply, in a matching shade of gray so it is subtle. “It was probably meant to be worn for a somber occasion, but somehow I think—”

“It’s perfect,” Arya declares. She tilts her head. “I don’t recall the last time I wore a proper gown, and I don’t know if Gendry has ever seen me in one,” she adds, a mischievous smile on her face. “It might be fun just to see the look on his face.”

Denia unsuccessfully tries to hide her giggles behind her hand, which makes Arya smile turn into a laugh. “Here, I’ll try it on. It might need to be shortened.”

“Do you… do you have a cloak?” Denia asks, helping Arya change.

“I do have one,” she answers. “It’s a little travel-worn, but it will do.”

“Does it need cleaning? I can take it—”

“It’s clean,” Arya says, frowning down at the dress. “Too long, and the top doesn’t feel right.”

Denia presses her lips together. “Let me get Gran. She’ll fix it,” she says, then dashing away before Arya can say anything. She snorts a laugh at the closed door, then sits by the window to look outside again while she waits.

xXx

“My lord, you have a visitor,” Kier says, hurrying up to meet Gendry as he walks through the corridors of his embarrassingly large home. He had planned to go kill some time and put his restless hands to work in the forge, but it does not seem that this will be happening now.

“Today?” Gendry asks, frowning. “Of course today.”

“I’m supposed to tell you it’s Ser Davos of House Seaworth and he came because King Brandon told him to arrive here today,” Kier says.

Gendry stops walking. “Of course he did,” he says, but then a slow smile spreads across his face. “Where is he waiting?”

“This way, my lord,” Kier answers, then starts walking again, Gendry falling into step beside him.

Davos is waiting in the courtyard, slowly strolling around, seeming to enjoy the warm sunshine. Winter is still making its slow exit from Westeros, and sunny days are still somewhat rare, even here in the south.

“Ser Davos,” Gendry greets when he is close enough to be heard.

Davos immediately turns, an easy smile spreading across his weathered face. “Gendry, my boy!” he exclaims, then immediately corrects himself, clearing his throat. “My lord,” he says with a deferential nod.

Gendry rolls his eyes. “There’s no need for that,” he says, pulling the older man into a hug. “We’ve been through far too much together to observe formalities.”

“You never know who’s watching and listening, lad,” Davos explains, his voice low.

“There’s no one in this courtyard but us,” Gendry says. “You’ve been at court too long; you’re getting suspicious.”

“Getting? How do you think I’ve lived as long as I have?” Davos replies with a laugh. “So. Why am I here?” he asks, following Gendry inside. “The king merely told me that my presence here on this day would be appreciated.”

“He’s got a way about him, doesn’t he?” Gendry carefully says, knowing that the enigmatic king could very well “see” or “hear” his words, even from his home him King’s Landing. Davos merely nods, waiting for the mystery to be solved. “Wine?”

“Wouldn’t say no,” Davos answers as they sit.

Kier had been waiting for them and he steps forward to pour. “I’m getting married,” Gendry finally explains.

Davos’ eyebrows rise. “Really? Today?” he asks. Gendry nods. “To whom?”

“Arya Stark.”

“You’re joking.”

“I promise I’m not,” Gendry says.

Davos watches him. “You’re marrying Arya Stark. I thought she turned you down.”

“She did. She came back yesterday.”

“And you asked her again and she said yes.”

Gendry rubs the back of his neck, thinking. “Not exactly. We talked. Cleared up some things between us. And I think we both just… decided we would get married.”

“You’re sure she wants to?”

“Yes, quite sure. She won’t let me see her this morning or anything. Plus she told me everything. _Everything_ , Davos. I know what she went through those years when she was away. No one else knows. Not even Jon,” Gendry says. “Also, she’s… um… carrying my child.”

“Ah, there it is,” Davos declares, leaning back.

“It’s not like that,” Gendry insists. “I mean, the baby is why she came back _now_ , but she assured me that she was always going to come back to me.”

“And you believed her?” Davos asks. When he sees the young lord’s face cloud, he quickly adds, “I’m just looking out for your happiness, Son, that’s all.”

“Yes, I believed her, and yes, I am happy. Arya has never and would never lie to me,” Gendry says. “We knew each other years ago… she was little more than a girl, and mostly a giant pain the arse…” he starts, then continues on to tell Davos about their travels together.

xXx

Gendry didn’t think noon would ever arrive, but when it finally did, he was ready for it, waiting in front of the largest Weirwood tree in what is left of the Godswood near Storm’s Landing.

The largest Weirwood tree is not that large, but they are lucky to have a Godswood at all, considering Stannis Baratheon tried to have it destroyed when he started following the Lord of Light. His wife put a stop to the destruction before it was complete, fearful of desecrating a sacred forest, even though it was sacred to a religion they no longer observed.

Gendry squints, looking upward. The sun is high overhead, shining brightly. It is noon, but he sees no sign of Arya.

Just as he turns to ask Maester Simmon if he has seen her, the old Maester points behind Gendry.

He turns and sees her, his betrothed, looking completely different from how he is accustomed to seeing her.

She’s wearing a _dress_.

Her hair is braided in the Northern fashion, looking similar to how Sansa tends to style her hair.

Her skin is glowing and she is _smiling_.

Needle and her Valyrian steel dagger are hanging at her waist.

She is also barefoot; he can see her small toes poking out from beneath the hem of the dress when she walks.

She looks so much like herself and so not like herself that Gendry feels lightheaded.

Davos has the honor of escorting her to him, but he steps back as soon as she reaches him.

“You look beautiful,” Gendry whispers to her, smiling down at her.

“So do you,” Arya replies, taking him in. He is dressed very similarly to how he was at the dragon pit council, the black leather with the interesting cuts near the shoulders. His boots have been cleaned and shined, and his cloak is black with gold accents.

They join hands before the moderately-sized tree.

A short time later, they are officially husband and wife, and the child growing within Arya’s belly is no longer a bastard.

xXx

“Gendry, where…?” Arya gasps after Gendry suddenly changes direction, pulling her by the hand.

“Just a detour,” he answers, hastening his steps, heading away from the castle instead of towards it. “The feast isn’t until this evening; no one will miss us.” In truth, they might be missed but he doesn’t really care.

“Yes, but… what is this place?” she asks. They’ve arrived at a ruin of a structure. It’s small and about half of it is missing.

“I think it’s an old stable. I found it one day when I was hiding from responsibility,” he absently says, tugging her inside, though “inside” is still very much outdoors, with very little roof and sections of wall missing. He immediately presses her against an intact wall and claims her lips with his.

She can’t help but laugh against his mouth even as her hands come up around his neck to hold on. His hands slide down her body, molding them to her small form. He unfastens her sword belt and removes it, setting it to the side. Then his fingers return to her and begin bunching her skirts, creeping them upward until he finds skin.

Gendry easily lifts Arya, wrapping her legs around his waist, his long, strong fingers digging into her flesh.

“You have nothing on under this dress,” he grunts, one hand blindly groping beneath her dress while the other holds her. “Thank you for that,” he adds.

She throws her head back and laughs, so he latches his lips onto her neck. His blind groping pays off, his fingers finding their target, sliding through her slick folds, and her laughter turns into a gasp.

“Can you…” he mumbles against her skin as he works his way back to her lips.

“Yeah,” she replies, letting go of his neck with one hand to reach for his belt. “I think so.” Her fingers fumble with the buckle. “You need to stop if I’m going to get this open,” she says, squirming in his arms.

“Sorry,” he replies, removing his hand to allow her to concentrate on her task. A minute later, she has him freed, gathers the skirts of her dress up and out of the way, and guides him into her.

“Oh…” she moans, her body momentarily going limp in his arms as he fills her.

“Gods, I have missed you,” he whispers into her mouth. “I love you… so much…” He continues to whisper and murmur small affectionate phrases as he thrusts into her.

“Gendry, you’re babbling,” Arya says, her voice ragged and husky. She grabs his face and silences his ramblings with a hungry kiss. One hand strays into his hair, now long enough to slide between her fingers. She even manages to grab some and pull it, drawing a grunt from him.

She wickedly grins and pulls again, tilting his head back so she can latch onto his Adam’s apple for a moment before licking a trail upwards, following the tendon to his jaw. “I missed you, too,” she whispers into his ear before biting the edge of it. “Oh, harder,” she says a second later.

He immediately complies, bracing her against the wall as he drives into her. She feels like he is devouring her, but she is also devouring him; they are both being consumed and made whole at once, the sensations building quickly between them.

“Arya… I’m…” Gendry gasps, unable to hold on any longer.

“Me too,” she replies, her grasp tightening on his hair and shoulder. She sharply cries out seconds later, just as he groans and thrusts deep into her, his body a coiled spring, taut and unmoving.

Then he relaxes, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close.

“I love you too,” Arya quietly says after a minute. “I’m… I’m glad we did this.”

Gendry lifts his head and gives her a puzzled look.

“Got married, Stupid,” she clarifies. “Though this was fun, too,” she adds with a laugh.

“I’m glad you came back to me sooner than you intended,” he replies. He gives her a tender kiss, then carefully releases her to stand on her own feet. He reaches down and trails his fingers over the very slight, almost invisible swelling of her stomach.

“I… I _think_ I’m glad you didn’t pull out in time,” she says, pursing her lips as she tries not to laugh.

He groans, looking at the canopy of trees overhead. “What have I done? I’m stuck with you for the rest of my life now.”

“Yes, you are,” she proudly declares, brushing and patting her dress to make sure she looks presentable.

His mock-exasperated expression gives way to a fond smile. “Yes, I am,” he agrees, finishing buckling his belt. “Come, Wife. We should go back before anyone misses us.”

She raises an eyebrow at his use of the term “wife,” but wordlessly takes his hand and follows him back out into the forest, this time heading for the castle.


	5. Chapter 5

The Lord and Lady of Storm’s End were expected in the courtyard outside the castle following the ceremony.

Gendry had forgotten.

Davos had not, and is scowling at them when they finally appear, at least a half an hour later than expected, looking rather flushed and happy.

“Oh no,” Gendry mutters.

“What?” Arya asked, looking up at him and then over in Davos’ direction. “Oh. Were we supposed to be _here_ after the wedding?”

“I forgot,” he says, both to her and to Davos, who was now close enough. “Sorry.”

“You forgot,” Davos repeats, knowingly eyeing them. “More like you weren’t using your brain to think with, lad.”

Gendry blushes, looking contrite, while Arya’s hand darts up to her hair, suddenly wondering if it is obviously unkempt.

“Your hair is fine, my lady,” Davos says, his expression softening. “I do remember what it is like to be young and in love. Your people are waiting though.”

They walk into the courtyard, and cheers erupt. It surprises both of them and their steps pause for a moment. When they reach the small platform set up for them, Gendry surprises Arya further by holding up his hands.

“Thank you all for taking the time today to come out and meet my new wife,” he says, turning slightly towards Arya, his lips automatically curving into a smile. “I present to you Arya Stark of Winterfell, Princess of the North and the Six Kingdoms.” She gives a small wave, and there are more cheers. “I know this union likely came as a surprise, but I assure you that it is an advantageous match and has been in development for some time.” Arya’s lips twitch as she tries not to laugh. “We look forward to a time of peace and prosperity in the Riverlands and all of Westeros,” he pauses again as a few cheers rise up from the crowd. “We thank you again for coming out to greet us,” he concludes, taking Arya’s hand.

As the crowd applauds and mutters among themselves, no one quite yet bold enough to step forward and officially greet them, Arya turns to Gendry and says, “You’re good at that.” His natural manner of speaking as he addressed the crowd had taken her quite by surprise; she never would have guessed that her stubborn blacksmith who had a tendency to be grumpy was quite at ease addressing a crowd of people.

“Good at what?” he asks, puzzled.

“That,” she repeats, gesturing to the crowd. “Talking to the people. I… I didn’t know you were good at oration.”

His eyebrow briefly raises as a lewd reply briefly dances across his brain, but he remembers where he is and instead says, “That? That’s just talking. It’s not difficult.”

“Yes, it is!” she insists. “I… I don’t even like being up here with everyone just _looking_ at me! The thought of giving a speech to them?” She shakes her head.

“What? Arya Stark, assassin trained by the Faceless Men, is afraid of something?” he teases, knowing full well she won’t punch him here in front of their people.

“Shut up,” she says, scowling for a second. Then her expression suddenly transforms as the first person comes forward. It is the man who first greeted her, except with no goat this time. He has the old woman who recognized Arya on his arm as he leads her to the dais. “Did you manage to take your goat where you needed her?” Arya asks, smiling.

“Yes, uncooperative nanny,” he answers, then bows. “M’lord, m’lady. Apologies, m’lady, I didn’t know you was highborn when I first saw you. I would’ve been much more polite. Would’ve escorted you myself instead of just pointing the way.”

“No offense was taken,” she says. “I wouldn’t have expected you to think I was. And you were very helpful and kind. What is your name?”

“Marc,” he supplies. “This is Athela,” he adds, introducing the old woman. “ _She_ recognized you because of your resemblance to your… must have been your aunt.”

Arya nods. “My Aunt Lyanna,” she says, turning her attention to Athela. “I am honored to meet you, mother. You must have many stories.”

Athela smiles. “I do, child, but they are for another day,” she answers, somehow knowing Arya doesn’t mind not being addressed by title. “I think I speak for everyone here when I say I hope fate is kinder to you than she was to your father and aunt.” She nods at Gendry and Arya in turn as she mentions their ill-fated, now dead, relatives.

Gendry’s eyes widen and he pales slightly, but Arya maintains her composure. “So do we,” she replies. “I know we… I have heard that we strongly resemble them in their younger days, but I assure you Lord Gendry is nothing like the late King.”

“Oh, yes, we learned that straight away,” she replies. “The young lord here is already a far better warden than his father or uncle ever were. He actually cares about us smallfolk.”

“That’s because I am one,” Gendry says.

“Were one,” Arya corrects.

“At heart, I still am, and probably always will be,” he counters, and Athela nods approvingly.

Arya fondly shakes her head at him, then reaches down and takes the old lady’s hand. “I did not know my aunt, so I cannot say whether my resemblance to her goes beyond the physical or not.” She gently squeezes her hand, then releases it.

“You knew King Robert then, my lady?” Marc asks.

“A little, when I was a girl,” Arya answers. “He was close friends with my father, but by the time I met him he was a fat, old, drunk, womanizer.”

There are a few gasps from people around them who overheard her plain words, but Arya doesn’t care. She is who she is and will not apologize for it.

Athela laughs. “Indeed, my lady,” she agrees. Then she leans in closer and quietly says, “Come see me soon, child. I’m a better midwife then that maester of yours is, I promise you.”

Now Arya’s eyes widen, but she simply nods. _If she’s a midwife, then she can probably tell._

“Marc, others are waiting to greet our lord and lady,” Athela orders, as if he was the one doing all the talking. Marc simply chuckles and escorts her away.

“You’re going to go see her, aren’t you?” Gendry asks, but it’s not really a question.

“Of course I am,” Arya replies. “She would be insulted if I didn’t, and, to be honest, I’d rather have her looking after me and our child than Simmon.”

“Fair enough,” he agrees. The next group of people approach, but he quickly says, “You’re good at _that_. Charming the people individually, I mean.”

She simply smiles and says hello to the young family that have come to the dais. A little girl of about six looks up at her with large brown eyes and loudly asks, “Did you _really_ kill the Night King?”

“Tally!” her father chastises, mortified at his daughter’s outburst. “My lady, I…”

Arya smiles and gently holds up her hand. “It’s quite all right…”

“Colbord,” her father supplies with a small bow.

“It’s quite all right, Colbord,” she says. “I wasn’t so different from her as a child.” She sees Gendry nodding out of the corner of her eye and knows he is probably trying not to laugh.

She kneels down and beckons the girl closer. “I did, Tally,” she answers, then withdraws her dagger. “With this dagger.” The girl’s big eyes widen further, and Arya says, “You can touch it if you like. Be careful, though, it is very sharp.”

xXx

“Mmmmmmoooaauuurrghhh…” Gendry’s moan against Arya’s mouth turns into a groan as he steps through the doors to his – their – chambers, his wife in his arms.

“Don’t tell me I’m too heavy,” she asks, pulling her lips from his. “I’m not _that_ big yet.”

He gently sets her on her feet, then kisses her nose, his hands lingering at her waist. “You could be great with child and you wouldn’t be too heavy for me,” he says. “I think I ate too much,” he explains.

“Oh really? Well, that’s a pity,” she replies, starting to step out of his light embrace. “I guess we’ll just go to slee—”

“I didn’t say I was too full to…” he trails off, pulling her back against him before she can escape. He leans down and kisses her, making it clear that he is definitely willing and able to perform his husbandly duty that night.

She slides her hands up his chest and around the back of his neck, one straying into his hair as she lifts up on tiptoe, pressing closer to him, needing to be as close as possible.

“Arya,” he manages to rasp out her name as he drags his lips down to her neck, his kisses more licks and small bites than actual kisses.

Arya doesn’t seem to mind; in fact, her fingers tighten in his hair and a small moan escapes her parted lips.

“How is it possible that you’ve hardly grown any taller than you were when we first met?” he asks, picking her up to sit on a nearby table because he was growing tired of bending down.

“Shut up,” she answers, but her voice is breathy, low, and not at all threatening. “I could still kill you so quickly you’d never even know it until you were dead. Or at least kick your ass. Even carrying your child.”

A sound like a low growl escapes his throat as he captures her lips, kissing her hungrily, his hands fisting the back of her gown.

“Oh gods, you like that,” she groans, his lips now doing sinful things to her neck. “You _like_ knowing that I could kill you.”

“Mmm,” he agrees, then lifts his head. “I guess I like strong women. A strong woman. You. I like – love – _you_ ,” he stammers, his eyes glazed, his pupils wide as he stares at her. “I think I fell in love with you, just a little bit, the first time you pushed me over,” he admits.

“Gendry, I was twelve,” she protests, but his hands are beginning to find their way under her skirts and his callused hands on her skin are quite distracting.

“Mmm,” he hums, busy pressing wet kisses to her collarbone.

“That’s gross,” she absently adds, quickly losing interest in this conversation.

“Doesn’t matter now,” he mutters. Without warning, he lifts her off of the table and spins her around so her back is to him. He begins loosening the laces of her dress, and she is only too eager to assist.

Her hands begin pulling at his clothes as soon as she is able, which is before her gown finishes falling to the floor. It’s the same kind of frantic tugging and struggling and throwing they went through their first time, in Winterfell’s freezing grain stores.

Neither one of them has the presence of mind to be thankful for the warmer climate of the Stormlands, nor do they recognize the fact that they don’t need to rush. They have the rest of their lives now.

But none of that matters right now because they are only aware of the burning need they have for one another, their desire only briefly sated from their earlier interlude.

“Bed,” Gendry rumbles, his large hand wrapping around her waist, which is just a little thicker than it was the last time he saw her. That detail seems to register with him, and when they stop at the side of his bed, he drops to his knees and softly presses his lips to the slight swelling there. Her hand lands on his head, her fingers threading through his soft hair, as she smiles down at him.

“I love you,” he whispers, drops another tender kiss to her belly, then stands and says, “And I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she replies, then pulls him down onto the bed. She begins climbing over him again, but this time, he resists, moving to loom over her. To his surprise, she relents, even opening her legs and bending her knees to frame his hips.

He leans down and catches her lips in a deep, searing kiss. One hand strokes her thigh, running up and down the smooth length of it until it settles on her hip, digging his fingers in as she writhes beneath him. His lips move down to her neck, kissing a hot trail to her breasts. He laves a nipple with his tongue before sucking it into his mouth at the same time his hand moves from her hip to her center.

She gasps, her nails biting into his side. She gropes downward until her hand finds his stiff length, and she wraps her fingers around it. He groans as she strokes him, and she smiles at his reaction.

“So wet for me,” he murmurs, moving across her chest to her other breast. Two of his thick fingers slide into her while his thumb rubs soft circles on her clit.

“Mmm,” she replies, arching her back. She runs her thumb over the tip of his shaft and he loses his rhythm for a second. She slides her hand all the way down his shaft and gently cups, then squeezes his balls and he grunts, his head dropping against her chest.

“I need you… now,” he rasps, lifting his head to kiss her.

“Yes,” she agrees, moving her hand back up to grasp him again, this time to move him into place.

He removes his hand from her, then shamelessly sucks her moisture from his fingers while she watches him with wide eyes.

“I’m going to taste more of you later,” he says as he leans down and kisses her deeply. A moment later she guides him into her, and they both moan with pleasure at the sensation.

Arya’s hips flex to meet Gendry’s thrusts, one hand slipping up into his hair, the other skimming down his body to grab his backside.

His lips travel down to her neck, his back bending so his mouth can stay in contact with her skin.

She moans, her hips lifting to meet his thrusts. She guides his head back so she can kiss him, needing his kisses as much as he needs hers.

“Arya,” he breathes her name between kisses, one of his hands skims the skin of her torso, moving up to her breast, where his thumb caresses a stiff nipple.

She grips his sides, her short nails once again digging into his flesh but he hardly notices. She feels so good and warm and just _right_ and his head is swimming with the euphoria that she is here, with him, forever. She has come back to him and he is completely hers. His eyes close in bliss as she wraps her legs around him.

Arya hums in pleasure, reveling in the feel of him over her, inside her, around her. As she feels her pleasure build, she opens her eyes and moves her hand up to run her fingertips across his brow, willing him to open his so she can see them.

He does, and the love she sees there: deep, pure, unconditional love, makes her gasp. She knows she is where she belongs. With him.

They lock eyes and hold each other’s gaze for a few intense moments. Gendry unwittingly breaks contact by dropping his forehead against Arya’s, squeezing his eyes closed, trying to hang on.

He moves his hand down and grips her hip, blunt fingertips squeezing the firm but yielding flesh of her rear. Her body begins to tremble just slightly, and he catches her lips in a searing kiss while his hips snap into hers, determined to bring her to her peak before he finishes. When she starts making small whimpering noises, he knows she is close.

He brings his hand back up to her breast and circles her nipple with his thumb. She tears her lips from his and gasps, her hands gripping his shoulders. A second later she shouts wordlessly, her head tilting back when her orgasm jolts through her, her body undulating with it.

The feel of her pulsing around his shaft is his undoing and he comes shortly after, surging into her with a low groan.

He collapses over her, but quickly moves to the side. He knows she wouldn’t mind his weight on her, but he is mindful of their child growing within her. He pulls her to his side and she cuddles against him, her head on his shoulder, her small leg hooking over his.

“Are you cold?” Gendry asks after a time.

“No. Are you?” Arya returns. It sounds too much of a challenge so he immediately shakes his head no. “Stubborn. Or stupid. Or both,” she says with a laugh.

“And all yours,” he reminds her, giving her a gentle squeeze.

“Lucky me,” she teases.

“You knew all this about me and yet you love me still, so you’ve no right to complain,” he points out.

To his surprise, she has no retort for him. She simply sighs and kisses his shoulder.

“What?” he asks, knowing his words have sparked something in her fascinating brain.

“Do you know what my favorite thing about seeing you again in Winterfell after all those years was? I mean, apart from your being alive.”

He can’t think of anything clever, so he simply asks, “What?”

“You treated me the same as you always have. Even though I had changed. You treated me like I was still just Arya. Which is what I only ever want,” she says. “Everyone else… except maybe Jon… seemed to tiptoe around me. Like they weren’t sure how to behave around me anymore.”

“You are a little scary, you have to admit,” he says. And now that he knows why, he completely understands. “As for me, I… I didn’t know how else to act with you. I don’t know if there is any other way for me to behave with you. I was just so… happy you weren’t dead either. And to see you’d grown into a beautiful, intelligent, talented… woman… I…” he pauses, shaking his head. “Like I said this morning, you were simply fascinating.”

“Fascinating?” she repeats, now in a better frame of mind to be intrigued by this knowledge.

“Fascinating,” he confirms. “Remember, the last time I had seen you, were still a child.”

She sits up and glares down at him. “I was nearly a woman grown!” she protests, suddenly sounding very much like she did all those years ago. “I had even started bleeding!” she blurts.

They stare at each other for a second, then Gendry snorts in his attempt to not start laughing. Then Arya _does_ start laughing.

“Yes, all right, I was barely out of childhood,” she concedes, lying back down, this time pulling the sheets up over them. “And I had only _just_ started bleeding. Not that you wanted to know that, but since we are married and you’ve already gotten a babe inside me…”

“Fair enough,” he allows. “Whatever you were, you were too young for me to really think of you _that_ way. Then, when I saw you in Winterfell, standing there, staring down the Hound like you were bigger than he was, I knew you had become so much more than the angry little girl who tried so hard to keep me from getting taken away from her. You were a woman. A woman who had seen and done things. Things I could never have imagined. And you were so beautiful.”

She turns her head and kisses his chest. “You are the only person who has ever called me beautiful,” she tells him.

He hooks his finger under her chin so he can see her face. “That is an unforgivable crime,” he says, kissing her forehead. “Because you are beautiful, Arya Stark. You are beautiful and strong and… very, very dangerous,” he concludes with a chuckle. Then he kisses her lips. “After you left the forge that first time, all I did was think about you _that_ way,” he admits.

She laughs again, and he loves hearing it. She needs to laugh more. They both do.

“I love you,” he says.

“I love you, too,” she replies, closing her eyes in contentment. His arm wraps more tightly around her, squeezing her for a second. Then it slides down and around until he is able to rest it on the swell of her stomach.

“Are you sure you won’t miss being off adventuring?” he asks after a time, his voice quiet in the darkness. She is so still and quiet he wonders if she has fallen asleep.

Then she moves, rolling onto her stomach on top of his chest, resting her face on her hands. “Stupid,” she affectionately says, smiling down at him. “You think this won’t be an adventure?”


End file.
